


Lesson Seven; On Choleric Stormclouds, Tea and Flutes

by an_evasive_author



Series: Continued Studies of Fatherhood [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 01:29:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20648972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_evasive_author/pseuds/an_evasive_author
Summary: Fëanáro is well known for his temper. But perhaps he has found a worthy match in his youngest son Carnistir. He is by far the most easily to upset of Fëanáro's sons and it takes quite some effort to bring comfort to the furious child. But who is Fëanáro if he does not rise up to the challenge of comforting the angriest of his children?





	Lesson Seven; On Choleric Stormclouds, Tea and Flutes

With so many children it had only ever been a matter of time for them to cycle through quite the array of little personalities. Carnistir, different from his brothers, was blessed with quite an angry disposition. Well, it was either that or he was simply easily to upset and made utterly livid without any apparent provocation.

At the moment, Carnistir found himself in quite the bind. Pressed against his father, bound to his front by a sling, he puffed his cheeks and blew a raspberry but there was no outright screaming just yet. A proper tantrum needed to be build up carefully, it seemed. And perhaps the warmth and the closeness of his father helped to soothe him.

Pressed flat as he was against Fëanáro, he looked like a little red-faced frog. An angry little frog. Alas, there was nothing Carnistir could do but grouse as he was carried along in his sling. And grouse he did; Unceasing and with his little brow creased into deep furrows.

He mewled most displeased and it would one day be displeased grumbling, for certain. But for now Fëanáro could merely offer him a listening ear as his tiny, red-faced son gathered steam for another round of screaming. It was never a matter of 'If' but of 'When'. It was much like grey clouds on the horizon. One would be well aware that the thunder and the lighting would come but when exactly was anyone's guess.

Already Carnistir had done in his mother and oldest brother and now the task fell to Fëanáro. Once he himself was done, it would be Kanafinwë's turn to comfort his tiny brother. The cycle would begin after that anew, for even though Tyelko loved his younger sibling, he was quite terrible at not getting distracted.

Exactly _why_ Carnistir found it necessary to vent and cry and holler so often, no one was _quite _sure. It was not sickness nor pain but even so, it did not change the mood of the youngest son of Fëanáro.

It made quite a compelling theory to ponder. How much of it was nature? How much had Carnistir simply meant to inherit of his father's renowned temper? How much of it was the result of colic or a truly bad case of gas?

But who was Fëanáro if he was not daunted by the challenge to find out? Admittedly, his research had been somewhat slower than he would have usually needed to produce results. But his youngest, angriest child needed to be cuddled frequently, tended to attentively at a moments notice or the walls would shake with his squealing fury.

Well, sometimes they would do that no matter how much attention Carnistir was showered with but it never hurt to be thorough and try one's luck until then.

* * *

Carnistir, remaining uninvested in stuffy, dusty books, squawked and continued to stare upwards into his father's eyes, demanding attention. Eye contact seemed to calm him, as did fingers touching his back. Fëanáro hummed as he wondered which shelf to scour next for information as he rubbed Carnistir's back gently.

Carnistir squawked again; Not out of some apparent need to be heard. He squawked simply because he could. So he did it again and was kissed on the brow which was a nice side effect.

Fëanáro shushed him and stroked fingers down Carnistir's spine as he carried him along, one hand underneath the child to hold him. The leather and linen spines all felt the same underneath his questing hand by now. His own fireless lanterns illuminated the library for fire near so much dried paper sounded like a truly bad idea.

Many new things where learned still, for the world was young and many things where not known. Finwë, who rather liked staying inside instead of finding out himself, liked to send empty books to those who had learned things. These findings would be sent back, carefully reviewed for accuarcy, put into something resembling an almanac and put into the great libraries so others could peruse their wisdom. Fëanáro, who had no patience to go there whenever he needed something to read, had ordered copies to be made.

The world was still young and so there where only a few hundred books just yet, but Fëanáro considered his own library the second best. Begrudgingly. Because he could not very well brag that his held his own writing which he had no intention of showing others just yet. His trade secrets would not be put out for others to simply steal what he had found out after decades of research.

But now the rows of books made his temples thump and his eyes felt rather dry after searching for hours.

Distraction of some kind would do him well, Fëanáro mused. The search had been fruitless so far and indeed something else to do would be just the thing. Tea, perhaps. A book read for leisure.

He could hardly count on his wife and Nelyo who both napped in the golden light of Laurelin like two red foxes, to make for compelling company as it was.. Very well, then it would just be the two of them. Fëanáro riffled through the nearest bookshelf and pulled a book at random.

_The Beekeeper's Guide to Honeybees by Nehtarwe._ Fëanáro hummed in thought, brow creased, but did not put the book away. Though only an almanac for beekeepers, Fëanáro could appreciate the sort of insanity that was needed to look upon a waxy hive filled with angry bees and have one's first reaction be to question what they hid away. The same sort of insanity that so often guided Fëanáro's hand.

Very well; That only left the refreshments. Carnistir yawned and exposed toothless gums before he rotated his ankles and waved his fists about to stretch. Yes, hard work had been done and now there would be a well deserved break.

* * *

With Carnistir's various needs tended to, Fëanáro was free to care for his own. The cutting board was still full of crumbs where he had cut bread and now he wished for tea.

To properly brew tea was an art in itself and as such Fëanáro could appreciate it, he thought as he swirled warm water around in the teapot. Though admittedly more delicate than smithing, it took time and skill, knowledge and patience to know every tea's preferred temperature, the time needed to let it steep properly.

Fëanáro had learned this art with the same gusto like he did everything that interested him. So it was without any conceit that Fëanáro called himself somewhat of an expert. A shame that no one in his family held the same interest in learning about this particular field of study. Oh well, there was always the chance that Carnistir would, once he was a little older.

Carnistir, meanwhile, gave a squeaky sigh and kicked his tiny feet before he settled again, apparently not in the mood to throw a fit. Maybe the bath had calmed him, or his meal had pleased him. Perhaps it was the fragrant steam of delicate tea. Jasmine, Fëanáro had not been in the mood for anything strong like he usually partook in. The dried tealeaves remained in their copper tins for this and Fëanáro had carefully measured out the fine blooms with a copper tea spoon. One for him, two for the teapot.

“Let me tell you, my dear,” said Fëanáro after he had sipped from his cup, “It is the water that makes the true difference; Let no one tell you otherwise.” He was quite pleased with the results, a light sweetness achieved without the use of sugar or honey.

A tiny piece of plant matter, barely the size of a grain of sand, slipped past his lips. It was to be expected, Fëanáro never used a muslin bag nor wire baskets. Experience had taught him that the leaves needed room to achieve their fullest potential. The strainer he used after was not perfect, but that was alright. It made each cup unique, each a little different from the rest.

Carnistir squawked in a way that could have been interpreted as either agreement or distracted acknowledgement.

Fëanáro smiled and kissed Carnistir on his tiny, twitchy nose before he opened his book and settled back into the chair.

* * *

Ah yes, tea had been just the thing. Invigorated, rested and counting himself lucky that Carnistir had held his composure for so long, Fëanáro took with him the remaining tea still left in the pot and wandered his lazy way back to the study.

There was an attempt made to grab for Fëanáro, any part in reach. It was his nose that was caught in the fray, standing out as it was. Fëanáro did not mind; As long as no one poked him in the eye again, he would hardly go and complain.

Fëanáro went cross-eyed, looking intently at the tiny hand holding onto his nose. They stayed like this for a moment, seemingly neither one sure what this would lead to. Then, Fëanáro pulled back lightly, merely to test how great Carnistir's dedication to hold onto his prize was.

If there was true desire to keep Fëanáro's nose ransom, the screaming would start if he saved himself. Carnistir truly despised his decisions foiled, no matter how poorly thought out. In this he held the clear advantage, for no one could reason with a screaming infant in a calm and reasonable manner, nor would screaming back accomplish much.

But it seemed Carnistir was not in the mood to make prisoners this time, for Fëanáro slipped free from tiny fingers and Carnistir whipped his hand around, snagged at Fëanáro's lower lip on the way down and finally pulled back to suck at his own fingers, all four of them, for a while. His thump remained free, angled too awkwardly to also slobber all over it.

Fëanáro watched him for a little while longer and kissed Carnistir on the crown of his tiny head while the child busied himself. Then, for there was still energy to work left, Fëanáro turned back to the shelves, to search for answers to the mystery that was his tempestuous son.

* * *

Perhaps it was the the way Fëanáro closed his book, the sound of pages being gently slapped together. Maybe it was the way he shifted to put the book onto the desk next to him. Or perhaps it had just been overdue.

Whatever the reason, Carnistir drew his brows together, squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered through his trembling lower lip.

Fëanáro had exactly enough time to open his mouth, to attempt and shush and comfort but not enough to make sounds. Carnistir threw his head back and howled like a boiling kettle, high and loud. His face turned terribly red, the sound only broken between taking great lungfuls of air to continue his unceasing screaming.

His tiny chest lurched and he swung his little fists around to hit at whatever came close. His hits held no impact, did not hurt but his yells did and Fëanáro plastered his ears to his skull before his eardrum would become too abused.

Fëanáro drew his wailing son close and rocked him carefully. He hummed and though the sound was utterly lost between the bawling, the way it thrummed through him sometimes soothed Carnistir.

But other than that and carefully stroking the tiny ears and the heaving back of his crying child, there was now blessed little he could do. Nothing but to suffer through it and wait it out.

And all the way his angriest of children screeched and cried and wailed as he tried to punch his father without any cessation in sight. Fëanáro sighed and settled down for a what would no doubt be a long afternoon.

* * *

Kanafinwë, spared from the ruckus until the time had come for his turn, practised his poise in peace. There was the unceasing sound of harp-strings being plucked, for it was not music he practised but the art of not sweating and fussing and shifting his gaze around a large crowd while he played. This proved a little harder, for even imagining playing at his grandfather's court, surrounded by so many that came to listen to _him_ was enough to swivel his ears and make him want to wipe his forehead.

Perched upon an upholstered stool, eyes closed, he hummed as he worked. Collected and graceful he looked, face clear of all emotions safe a mellow sort of thoughtfulness. That had taken quite some work to get right. It would not do to look stressed,

It took time and practice to look so utterly at ease in front of an audience but Kanafinwë, like all sons of Fëanáro, possessed the sort of tenacity that left him able to master the skill necessary.

“How very regal you look,” said Fëanáro from where he leaned against the doorframe and managed a smile even as his ears rang from the lingering echo of Carnistir's wrath. His head pounded as a headache threatened to break through and his back felt ready to bow out from the weight that had hung from it for hours by now. He only became truly aware of it just yet, now that the weight was gone all at once. “I brought tea...” he offered, holding the last cup of tea.

Kanafinwë opened his eyes, blinked and his fingers ceased their movement. He blinked again, several times, and his long eyelashes fluttered as he rubbed his temples. “Oh,” came the acknowledgement when he noticed his father standing in the doorway,

“Have you been listening for long?” He smiled at Carnistir hanging from his father, head turned to look over his shoulder at his older brother.  
Fëanáro placed the cup of tea next to Kanafinwë, carefully avoiding the parchment filled with neat, flowing handwriting. “Not long, I admit, it was this one that drove me here.” Fëanáro said and patted Carnistir's back.

Carnistir, still complaining quietly, gave a displeased little peep, too exhausted to let loose again just yet. He had tired himself out quite badly, his cheeks and forehead still flushed red and eyes still glazed from hot tears. But he had no means to continue. Instead he opted for low, mewling whining.

Both Fëanáro and Kanafinwë watched him squirm around, trying to glare angrily at whoever he could fix down with his glare. “My turn?” asked Kanafinwë and smiled, unbothered by the stare.

“If you are up to it,” said Fëanáro. “Far be it for me to disturb your practice,” he said but did not object when Kanafinwë loosened the knot that held the sling together. Though small, Carnistir still weighed something and hauling him around all day had left Fëanáro's back aching.

Fëanáro stretched and made sounds of one working out kinks and enjoying every moment of it. “You have my thanks. And soon a headache, I would bet.”

Kanafinwë laughed, “I will manage, I'm sure.” He inclined his towards his little brother, “We are going to have fun, you and I. Won't we? No more crying?” asked Kanafinwë as he held Carnistir who burbled quietly as if mumbling to himself. It seemed Carnistir still contemplated with himself about that.

Carnistir snorted, yawned, sniffed at the new scent that now enveloped him and frowned. Kanafinwë laughed, “See? We will be fine. ”

Fëanáro, tired, sore and unwilling to go through a second tantrum so soon after the last, hummed. “Very well, I think I shall go and join your mother for a while.”

Kanafinwë bid him farewell and once the door had been gently closed behind Fëanáro, Kanafinwë stroked a strand of hair back behind his ear. It had come loose from its ponytail, his hair, though straight like his father's, was just unyielding and could never be contained neatly in a tie.

Carnistir looked up and Kanafinwë looked back, grinning. Then Carnistir creased his little brow, looking even more irritated and discontent. The corners of his mouth reached nearly to his chin, so deeply he frowned.

Kanafinwë snorted with laughter at the sight and nosed his brother's frowning face, much to the absolute and utter chagrin of Carnistir who stared up at Kanafinwë, incredulous at this gross audacity.

“Come, I will play the flute for you. You like that, remember? No need to be so grumpy.” And with that Carnistir was whisked away, too surprised to even scowl. It took effort to continue his bellyaching, concentration that Carnistir could not muster if he was constantly disturbed in his brooding.

He was not tied to Kanafinwë in his sling and that was nearly enough to get a good holler out of Carnistir. But Kanafinwë pressed his cheek to Carnistir's and hugged him and that made screaming quite difficult.

“Let me see where I put it and then we will have fun!” called Kanafinwë and laughed.

Carnistir burbled and wiped his little hands over his face but indeed he remained silent.

* * *

Fëanáro found his wife and Nelyo where he had left them, still sprawled out on the patio where piles of pillows had been spread around to allow lounging without needing to go far. Fëanáro could have done so. But now there was an addition made to the two, now three, sleeping elves. Tyelkormo lay curled up next to his brother.

Fëanáro had every intention of joining in, though the pillows next to them where not of his liking and so he first needed to rifle through the assortment. It would not do to curl around just any pillow and even though he felt ready to drop where he stood, he would take the time.

Only when the correct pillow was properly fluffed and folded down, one arm coiled around it and Fëanáro lay on his side did he finally allow himself the rest he was due.

Indeed, here they lay, these brave three that had endured Carnistir's perpetual wrath. With these thoughts of perhaps not quite victory on his mind, Fëanáro drifted off, aided by the gentle sounds of a flute somewhere in the distance.


End file.
